Pigeonhole marked M
by SabrinaPhynn
Summary: A place to put my one-shots, drabbles and assorted stuff that does not fit anywhere else.
1. Ch 1 Insomniac oneshot, child fic

"Mama... I can't sleep... "

I sighed, resigned, as Sherlock padded into my room for the fourth time after being put bed that evening

" What is it now? " I pinched the bridge of my nose; tired and irritable, I spoke slightly more sharply than I had intended. It promised to be a long night if I could not settle my youngest child. I blotted and set aside my letter to my cousin.

Sherlock had, of course, caught my tone; he pouted slightly, the start of tears threatening to spill over those impossibly long lashes. I pulled him into hug and sat him on my lap.

"No matter, cher, Mama's eyes were tired anyway. Now what is the trouble? "

The grey eyes stared back at me and blinked in silence, thinking.

"Bad dream? "

"N-no... " and his voice was thoughtful, " Not this time, anyway. My stomach. It keeps making noise and waking me up."

"Hmm. Did you eat your supper?"

"Mmmm... Oh. No, I don't think so. I was thinking, you see, 'bout something My had said and then the plate was cold and there was just so much there. And ... Mama, the foods were touching! " he exclaimed in horror.

"Ah. There's your trouble then. Hunger. Think that a biscuit and cocoa might help?"

He nodded solemnly. Taking my hand, we went down to the kitchen.

He swung his feet as he nibbled on his biscuit and slurped his mug of cocoa. His feet could not quite reach the floor as he sat on the bench closest to the fire.

"Mama?"

"Oui, mon petit chou* ..."

"Think I'll ever be as... as tall as Mycroft?"

"Well, maybe... if you remember to eat! Though I doubt quite as round... "

He giggled, a sound both rare and lovely.

"Mama! Not nice!"

I chuckled. "True, none the less, cher. Bedtime now."

"Oh ... must I?" his reply was plaintive and sleepy.

"You must; I will settle you in."

As I settled my youngest back into bed for the final time that night, he suddenly reached up and hugged me tight and kissed my cheek. I treasured this unusual occurrence.

"G'night Mama."

**A/N: Written for for Aleine SkyFire's challenge for a happy childhood fanfic, from Madame Holmes' perspective. Based on my own experience with an night owl /insomniac child. * petit chou= literally little cabbage, term of endearment of children**


	2. Chapter 2

06/16/1986

"Sherlock! Get down from there!"

"NO. Too high!"

Mycroft peered at his little brother, perched ten meters up an elm, a mop-topped bird. You'd think he'd have more sense at ten.

"Climb down a bit, then I'll catch you."

"I guess you'd work as a pillow."

"Now try sitting on the branch. Good. No, do NOT look down, you'll get dizzy..." Just a few meters more and he bade Sherlock to jump.

One heap of Holmes, no injuries.

04/16/2011

Up Elm. Moriarty has John- SH

Will assemble team. Can not guarantee soft landing- MH


	3. Chapter 3

400 words about Mycroft

Top reasons to give Mycroft cake:

It is fun to watch his eyes roll back in appreciation

More fun is noting his assistant's fond smile while he's eating cake.

Chocolate and dairy production in the E.U. experience sudden economic upturns.

Teatime is an official ceasefire period when there is cake.

Cake gives Sherlock gloating rights

Cake = Mycroft in a better mood = improved access to CCTV, Baker Street edition, for all fangirls (Molly, are you noting this? GET CAKE)

It never hurts to have the British government the NSA and the CIA' NSA and the CIA.

Cake is not "officially" a bribe

Mycroft was a month shy of seven when Sherlock was born. He did not appreciate ruining his birthday by taking Mummy away for the whole weekend. (Never mind that Sherlock was in hospital with a viral pneumonia that nearly ended his life at a month old- he was minutes away from being intubated in the A&E when Mummy arrived, and then he suddenly took a turn for the better) It was the last time anyone recalls Mycroft having an outward temper tantrum. (Sherlock still sees the internal tantrums)

Mycroft would never tell anyone this, but Sherlock knows and uses to his advantage every holiday: the only food he will not touch, not ever, is Brussels sprouts. Of course, Sherlock brings them to every family gathering just to taunt him, making a big show of how much he likes them, the git.

Before Sherlock was born, Mycroft was given a book by one of Mummy's american colleagues by Mercer Mayer, "Just me and my little brother" He promptly re-named it "Just Mycroft and Sherlock" and read it every single night for three straight years before bed. He still has it in a box in the attic, complete with all of Sherlock's crayon scribbles all over it. Including the x's over the older brother creature on every page.

One of the few talents that Sherlock inherited that Mycroft did not was musical talent. Mycroft is actually tone deaf; he is unable to carry a tune or whistle on-key, which drives Sherlock bonkers. The only instrument Mycroft ever successfully played was the tympani drum, but that was a huge struggle, and soon abandoned for more cerebral pastimes, such as chess and backgammon. He is still a patron of the arts, however, and has season tickets for the ballet.

400 words on Sherlock

By the time Sherlock tries to use outrageous antics to get Mummy's attention, she is too exhausted to get upset. Mycroft had already tried nearly everything Sherlock could think up, as well as a few others, so nothing really shocks or surprises her too much. What Mummy failed to understand is that Sherlock sees her lack of reaction as meaning he is not as loved or as important to her as Mycroft. This is not actually the case, but no one ever bothers to tell him that directly (Until John points it out when he's musing on his own upbringing) or correct him on this point. He resents getting to do nothing first. Yes, even the stimulants.

Sherlock's first memory of Mycroft is being told to be quiet, he was busy working figures.

Sherlock's second memory of Mycroft is being told to hand over all of his candy.

Sherlock enjoys lording his violin prowess over Mycroft, as he knows it irks him to no end (but since he's tone deaf, Mycroft does not mind the sour notes as much as someone else might). Sherlock will, however, join Mycroft at the ballet, if asked.

Sherlock does appreciate Mycroft's cooking, since he himself never bothered to learn how, there really was no need.

What Sherlock fails to appreciate is that Mycroft is built much more like the Holmes family- massive in scale, broad shouldered, generally all over larger than life. Mycroft's metabolism is about half that of Sherlock's and it barely changes despite best efforts on his part. The constant dieting has irreparably soured Mycroft's temper, and his tolerance for Sherlock's teasing is nill.

Sherlock idolized his brother until the age of 10, and constantly followed him around, amazingly, Mycroft let him do this until he left for university, and taught him everything he had learned about observing others. Unfortunately, Mycroft could not teach Sherlock tact; he said everything he observed and concluded out loud. Which is why Sherlock did not make any friends at school.

The biggest fights growing up always came mid-summer when Mycroft was feeling most lazy, Sherlock the most bored, and they had run out of new people to meet in the town that was near their home. One July when they were three and ten, they went through four tutors and eight nannies. The tutors could not challenge Mycroft. The nannies were unable to contain Sherlock.

200 words from Mummy to her boys:

You liked each other better when you were younger. Of course, you each think the other is my favourite. That's ridiculous. What you don't see is how much you need each other, and that there IS no favourite.

Mycroft, my little old man, always so serious. Seriously, darling... when WAS your last day off? I know how much you adore being helpful and yes, you are exquisite at it, but sweetheart, I really think you may need a break. Make sure that lovely girl who helps you out takes a day off too, I think she may have sprained her thumbs badly. Don't make me stage a coup, darling... You know I could. I shall mail you the keys to the Marseilles house.

Sherlock, stop moping about and shooting the walls. I know your landlady well. She does NOT appreciate your taste in wall decoration. Your flatmate was also QUITE put out with you borrowing his firearm. (BTW; nice blog, John.) That was NOT how you were raised. I would tell you to eat, but it seems your flatmate is having a good influence on you in that department. Do email soon, dear; I tire of these second hand accounts.


End file.
